Page 27 of She’s Worth the Risk

But in my rush to order, I forget to ask for a to-go cup. The barista motions for me to find a table, and I hover anxiously. Zinnia hasn’t seen me, and I could still leave.

Instead, my feet move with a mind of their own to the table beside her, where I lower myself stiffly into a chair, pull out the notes I’ve been working on for my research paper, and do my best to concentrate.

God, I don’t know what I’m doing here. Life has been smooth sailing since last week. Our life-drawing class on Thursday night was fine, with Zinnia smiling pleasantly and posing without complaint. Yesterday’s lecture was no different. She was punctual to class, returning my notes with a smile and a thank you. No challenge in her gaze, no over familiarity. Just two people going about their lives on parallel tracks, exactly as it should be.

Yet here I am.

“Here you go.”

I glance up as the barista brings my tea, realizing I’ve been staring vacantly at my notes for a while. “Thank you,” I say, pulling my glasses off to clean them on my sleeve, then sliding them purposefully back up my nose.

Time to focus. I’m not here for her, I’m here to get some work done. This is a pleasant enough coffee shop, and I had to come out this way for life drawing. This has nothing to do with Zinnia.

“Professor Sweetman,” a voice says beside me.

My pulse leaps, and I look across to find Zinnia gazing at me, eyes shimmering. Something about her use of my title in this setting feels wrong, and I shift uncomfortably. We’re several miles from campus. In a different borough. I don’t feel like a professor here.

Or maybe I don’t want to be reminded that’s what I am. Her professor.

I give her a tight smile, wondering for the hundredth time what I’m doing. She bites her lip, chewing for a moment as if searching for something to say.

Fuck, I should leave.

But my feet refuse to cooperate.

“This weather is something, huh?” she murmurs at last, and I frown. I don’t want to talk to her about the weather.

“When did you visit the Scrovegni Chapel?” I blurt.

Jesus Christ.

She blinks, taken aback by my abrupt subject change. “Oh. Uh, my grandmother took me when we went to Italy. It must have been ten years ago now.”

“What was your favorite part?”

Her eyes move between mine, briefly coloring with confusion. I don’t blame her. She’d tried to talk to me about this on campus, and I shut her down. Now I’m in this random coffee shop, asking too many questions. I don’t even understand it myself.

“The whole chapel was stunning. It just had this… energy. The blue of that vaulted ceiling, the huge Last Judgment scene…” Her head tilts in thought. “But the image that really stood out to me was the one with Judas.”

I nod. I know the one. The Arrest of Christ, or Kiss of Judas as it’s more commonly known, showing Judas betraying Christ in the center, surrounded by an angry mob. It’s my favorite too.

I force my gaze to my tea, reaching for it with unsteady hands. “Why?”

“I don’t know. There was a sense of chaos you could feel, you know? And I always remember the way Judas stared at Jesus in that yellow cloak, in the center.”

“The way Giotto depicted the cloak to be three-dimensional is what made his work so different from the flat, stylized drapery of earlier Byzantine art,” I point out. “And then there’s the symbolism of the cloak itself…” I trail off as she scrunches her nose, lips twitching with a barely restrained smile. “What?”

“Why do you do that?”

I set my tea down. “Do what?”

“Take something so… so… breathtaking and reduce it to a sterile list of art techniques.”

My brow furrows. “I don’t think—” I begin, but the mirth glittering in her eyes stops me short.

“The way Giotto depicted the cloak to be three-dimensional…” she mimics, putting on a stilted, robot-like voice. “You really don’t hear it?”

I stare at her in shock. Did she actually just do that? Mock me to my face? I should be angry—insulted, even—but a disbelieving laugh rushes up my throat. I wouldn’t tolerate this from anyone else, but Zinnia’s candor disarms me.